Tuesday, August 29, 2006

1. Find and pack cute outfit for Saturday night’s pre-wedding shindig at Lucy’s parents’ summerhouse.2. Manicure and pedicure.3. Find the guts to get a Mystic Tan, so as to not horrify wedding attendees with my pasty skin and the really bad farmer’s tan on my arms.4. Bake blueberry muffins to bring to Saturday night’s pre-wedding shindig.5. Locate/purchase incredibly adorable purse that will match my bridesmaid dress and draw many compliments and envious stares.6. Blog about fear of the Mystic Tan.7. Purchase wedding gift.8. Work out. For fitness. I am so already the skinniest bridesmaid. And I like it.9. Actually get Mystic Tan.10. Mull and pout over the fact that I’m the only bridesmaid who doesn’t have a boyfriend. Or even a measly date.11. Blog about the fact that I’m the only bridesmaid who doesn’t have a boyfriend.12. Blog about the fact that I’m the only bridesmaid who doesn’t have a date.13. Blog about the fact that I’m the only bridesmaid who is a virgin.14. Blog about the fact that I will die a virgin.15. Wonder, on a regular basis, if I am expected to make a speech. Have not been told that I’m the maid of honor. Neither has anyone else. But I’m the one standing next to Lucy during the ceremony. And another one of the bridesmaids said something, in passing, about my making a speech. 16. Write witty, charming and memorable speech just in case.17. Memorize witty, charming and memorable speech so I don’t look stupid. 18. Tell everyone I know about how random Lucy’s wedding will be.19. Get excited.20. Marry off my bestest friend.

Sunday, August 27, 2006

My sister has a pet goldfish, Philip, who lives in a tank in Mom and Dad’s living room. Philip was a gag gift from the captains of her high soccer team – everyone on the team got one; Meg’s fish is the only one who lived longer than a month.

Fast forward three years.

Philip is still alive.

He’s not what you would call an active goldfish. He chills in the bottom corner of the tank most of the time, not much interested in doing crazy things like swimming laps or moving around.

On Wednesday night, my mom and my sister see my dad peering into the fish tank. He’s looking and looking and looking.

“Where’s the fish?”

They both go over to the tank.

Which Philip is not inside.

Here is also where the fish is not:

a. anywhere on the floorb. dead inside of the filterc. dead under the gravel.

Mom cleaned and emptied the tank yesterday. There is no Philip carcass.

We doubt that Philip jumped out of the tank to commit suicide. The top of the water was a good eight inches below the top of the tank. And the fish didn’t swim. How could he possibly jump?

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Tomorrow, it'll be three weeks since we went on our date. He called me to go out that Friday; I declined.

And didn't hear from him for over a week.

I heard from him last Monday. Monday of the spontaneous job interview. I was printing my resume and matching my purse to my suit and crying to my mom on the phone and painting my nails and having an anxiety attack.

Somehow I missed his call.

Somehow I've neglected to call him since.

I am officially as bad as he is.

[In my defense, however, there was that whole trip to NYC and the enormous event at work and the bachelorette party and a day on Grandma and Grandpa's boat and a lesson with my skating coach and no frigging sleep whatsoever.]

Now, I don't even know if I should even call him. I swear there wasn't any chemistry. And this Delivering Major Hint Via Silence would be easy.

But mean.

Wouldn't it be mean?

I don't like being mean.

But I also don't like awkward situations. And wouldn't that be awkward? A pity date?

I guess it would only be awkward for me, Girl Who Is Leading Boy On. Boy Being Led On would be none the wiser.

Sunday, August 20, 2006

The job interview in New York turned a ho-hum week into a frantic, emotional tornado. And it was capped off by an open house at my work, featuring 1,000+ visitors and way too much responsibility on my already packed plate.

After leaving the open house, I raced home for a shower. I was already late, so I threw myself together and zoomed out the door as quickly as I could.

I made it to the party after dinner and just before the games were to begin.

Oh, goody. How I love games centered around humiliation and the male sex organ.

We opened things up with "body charades." I wanted refuse my team assignment, retreat to the couch and pull into myself. I hadn't even had a drink yet. The game sounded torturous.

The game would've been, too, had I not consciously made an effort to get over myself. It wasn't my party. If Lucy was game for it, I was game for it.

I had the good fortune of acting out the following: fellatio, hand job and thong.

I scored points for my team by correctly guessing: dominatrix, kama sutra, missionary and a slew of the like.

I pretty much kicked ass.

Not bad for a mere virgin, eh?

And speaking of being a mere virgin: being the only one at a sex-themed party is somewhat uncomfortable. Not that anyone (including Lucy, believe it or not) knew, but there is always that irrational fear of being called out on your bluff.

We played some stupid games. Talked gynecologists and giving birth and periods and all the girly gore you could imagine.

Then, there was the bar.

We walked in the door and were handed:a. a playing cardb. two wooden dowels, about the length and the circumference of a drum stick

After being ushered to the bar, we were informed that all females and males were handed a trading card. It was the job of the female to find a male with a matching card. Then, he was supposed to buy you a drink.

We didn't bother with that game.

Our server then informed us that, at this particular bar, the following was encouraged:a. standing on your chairsb. standing on your chairs when the DJ demanded itc. pounding your wooden sticks against the walls, your table, the bar, your friend's wooden sticks and everything, basically, but the lights and the ceiling.d. pounding your wooden sticks against the walls, your table, the bar, your friend's wooden sticks when the DJ demanded it

Listening to the DJ resulted in special shot deals.

Ooookay.

I didn't get drunk. I never get drunk. But I drank enough. Including a Jager bomb (on special after the clientele yelled and banged sticks really loudly), even though I would rather drink my own urine.

Once again, I forced myself to suck it up and have fun despite my reservations. I would not be the lame bridesmaid who would rather be at home, watching What Not to Wear. I drank (intelligently). I danced. I smacked my sticks against things when encouraged to. I laughed when Lucy intentionally threw water on me.

And I had our server put her tab on my credit card.

I cashed out at the same time as another bridesmaid, Alexa. Despite telling him 43 times that I was paying for Lucy's tab ("Lucy! The bride! Put her tab on my card! She's the bride! She can't pay!"), the server came back with Alexa's tab on my credit card.

So I paid for her drinks, too!

(She says that she'll pay me back. I don't believe it.)

Lucy had been very generous in buying shots for her entourage. Alexa bought herself plenty of drinks and far too many $5 bottles of water.

2. Most excellent wedding present for best friend I have ever had. She said that her and her husband-to-be have decided that I cannot buy them a wedding gift because I've "done so much already." Pffffft. Like it is even their choice.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

I stuck the key to her apartment into the front door to her apartment building and - oops! - stuck.

Like, really stuck.

Like, I stood at her front door and pulled on the key until my thumb and index finger blistered.

During this entire ordeal (where I couldn't reach Aviva on her phone), I was thinking that it had to be a sign. Shit like that doesn't just happen. It happens for a reason.

And maybe the reason is that I shouldn't move to New York.

I sat on the steps to her building, waiting for someone to come in or out. If I was at home, the first person I would've called is my dad.

It's strange and scary, not having him as an option.

I waited outside for a while - 15 or 20 minutes, maybe? - before Aviva's ex-roommate came to the door. I knew her, sort of, in college. She and Aviva lived together when they first moved to New York, had a massive falling out, and she got another apartment in the building.

She got us into the building (by buzzing another resident! What an idea!) and gave me the number to the building's superintendent. He, luckily, was in the building. And he freed the key for me.

Good sign: one girl I know in the building shows up. Superintendent is available to help me. Disaster is avoided.

Now, let's talk about the interview.

I thought that it went well. It was somewhat difficult to tell how they felt about me, but the conversation was easy and the questions weren't too awkward or horrible and I think I presented myself fairly well.

It was long. 10 am-1:30 pm. Very long. I met with five people who I'd actually be working with and then was ushered across the street to the human resources department to fill out the formal application and interview with the HR recruiter.

I bounce between wanting this job and hoping that I don't get it.

I want the job because I want a new challenge and because I hate where I am and because it would be a great opportunity for me.

I don't want it because I'm afraid I'll hate it as much as I hate my current job. Because I'd be moving so far. Because I am unsure of myself and of my ability and I'm afraid I will take the job and make the move and it will be totally wrong for me and I will be incredibly screwed.

And that leaves me to where I am now. Confused. Blistered fingers. Off to wander the city a little before I meet Aviva after she's through with work. Scared, too. Definitely scared.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

I'm flying out tonight - at 9:24 - and staying at Aviva's house in Midtown. In the interest of cost (incredibly less expensive) and a little quality time with good ol' 'Viva, I don't fly back to DTW until 6:00 am on Thursday.

I expect to be exhausted.

Emotionally, I'm sure, as much as physically. Just considering moving to a new city is very scary.

It would be good for me.

For whatever reason, this trip isn't stirring up as much anxiety as my interview in Chicago this spring.

I'll take that as a good sign.

Another good sign? Kevin and Aviva are both interviewing tomorrow morning for potential promotions.

Monday, August 14, 2006

"Hey, I know I haven't contacted you since last f'ing week, but if you can still do THIS WEDNESDAY, as in two bloody days from now, that would be awesome. Let me know!"

Okay. Hi.

I have, like, 36 hours in which to pack and prepare for this. And work 9 hours. And drive (like maniac) to Mom and Dad's house to get a suit to wear. And go through massive airport hassles. And check my luggage (because I'm not traveling without my hair gel). AND FREAK OUT. REPEATEDLY.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

I haven't heard from my Jewish date since he sent me a text message last Friday, asking me what I was doing that night.

I don't really have an opinion on that. I just wanted to lay the facts down.

This afternoon, I made an online appointment for a doctor who I last saw when I was a freshman in college. My current problem (back/shoulder) is eerily similar to that which I was suffering from back when I was a freshman. Funny how things don't change, right?

I'm a better person now than I was then.

On Saturday morning, I will get up too early (6:30 am) to skate. After my lesson, I have an appointment to get my hair cut. I almost want to cancel.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

My mom released me from Bridal Shower Bootcamp at 10:00 pm on Saturday night, just in time for me to go to the bar with Colin.

He wanted to take me to the new bar in town, the latest investment for the men who own Colin’s all-time favorite bar (and Tuesday night staple) that’s a few cities over.

At this point, I know that I shouldn’t even bother. But I can’t say no, and since I have successfully reduced my expectations of him to nil, I accepted his invitation.

We sat down at our table after he exchanged pleasantries with all of the staff – he’s good at that, being friendly and learning names and whatnot – and ordered our drinks. We talked about nothing in particular for a bit before we were joined by Sarah, one of Colin’s friends from Way Back When, who waitresses at the bar.

She’d been off the clock for a while, drinking at the bar, before she came and joined us.

I’ve met Sarah a half-dozen times before. She’s a nice enough girl. Definitely not the slightest bit intelligent, and not what I’d call classy, either, but an okay person. She’s decent. She has a good heart. Her head is what does her in.

Sarah sits down with us and launches into some story about Colin’s boss (who she knows because, at one point, she worked part-time at Colin’s humble place of employment) that I could care less about. I sit there, quietly, with my eyes glazed over and a placid smile on my face.

Then there’s a conversation about the menu test that all of the wait staff at the bar were taking the next day. Colin said that he could probably do as well on it as Sarah. Sarah and him discuss the various cheeses on assorted sandwiches. I try really hard to be engaged by the topic. It doesn’t work. And I really, really like cheese.

All of a sudden, Sarah says, “are you still seeing that one girl?”

And things get totally awkward.

Colin doesn’t say anything at first. I have my chair turned at an angle where I can’t really see his eyes, and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by moving around. He’s staring at Sarah, though, and I’m moderately certain that he’s giving her the “Oh My God Please Shut Your Big, Drunken Mouth” eyes.

He shoots a quick glance at me and Sarah says “no, no. Not her.”

And the topic dies there.

Two seconds later, Sarah, Queen of All Tattlers, says, “hey! What was the name of that girl you came into the bar with the day after St. Patrick’s Day? She came in here the other day, at lunchtime, with some friends.”

Colin’s like, “uhhhh. I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

Sarah replies with, “yes you do! You came in with her and your brother. You were totally still drunk from the night before. You played pool. You shared a pitcher of beer. Come on! What’s her name?”

Colin claims, again, that he doesn’t know her name.

“You totally do,” I piped in. I couldn’t help myself. It felt like he was playing dumb for me and, quite frankly, it was unnecessary. Please. Like I can’t read through your pathetic act.

The Mystery Girl remained the topic of conversation for a few more minutes. Colin continued to insist that he had no recollection of this phantom girl. I fluctuated between being bummed and not giving a shit.

Eventually, Sarah left and we returned to more comfortable ground. Colin told me about how he was going to try to go back to school – despite his miserable grades the first time he attempted community college – and I urged him to do it.

We talked a little about work. A little about Lucy’s wedding shower. We touched on this and that. Caught up a bit. I don’t call him just to chat anymore (see? I am getting better!) so we had all of that day-to-day stuff to discuss.

And, as we were leaving, I teased him a little more about The Mystery Girl. He kept up the act. I still didn’t buy it.

This turn of events, coupled with the not-so-great feeling I get from Ms. Move In Three Weeks and the fact that she, indeed, expects me to relocate in three weeks makes me so over even considering that job. Maybe that isn't the wisest decision, but I'm going to go with my gut on this one.

But I'll still analyze it to death.

What? Did you think I'd turned into a new person overnight?

*It's okay. You can tell the truth. I'd rather be writing about Lucy's wedding shower and going out with Colin last Saturday night. Eventually, I will. Probably tomorrow, when my boss is out of the office.

Now, by "nothing to do," I do not mean that I don't have work to do. To my right, there is daily and monthly finance crap that I must suffer through. And here at my left elbow is communications that I need to prepare and distribute, some information that I need to plug into my computer, and a few flyers that I need to hang on the bulletin board.

Yes. I can't even convince myself to get out of my chair to walk to the other side of the office.

Work-wise, there are things to do. Finding-new-work-wise, however, there really isn't. I've been here since 7:30 and I've already sent my resume to everywhere with an open position that I have even the slightest tidbit of interest/experience in.

Monday, August 07, 2006

From an email from potential employer: "Second, and perhaps more important, this is a position that we must fill on a full-time basis no later than September 1, which may be difficult given your current location. Is it likely that you would be settled in the area by that time?"

Does anyone else realize how soon September 1 is?

I broke the news to my mom tonight. She seemed upbeat. She reminded me that it could be done. I could live in a hotel for the first month if I had to. And, no matter how much I hated the job, I could do it for a year.

Any decision can be unmade, she told me.

The same thing she told me when I was choosing my college. "It would be for as short as semester," she told me, "not forever."

Friday, August 04, 2006

I went out with the boy from Aviva’s brother’s wedding on Wednesday evening.

That’s huge.

Because I seriously considered not doing it.

A date with someone I’d met once before is so incredibly far out of my comfort range. I could stay at home, go to the gym, paint my toenails and watch The Hills and not worry about my hair (too humid thus too curly) or what to wear (this is too casual, that is too dressy, this doesn’t match with any of my accessories) or how to act (fake confidence? Give in to my shyness? Smile with unnatural frequency?) or what to eat (at a fricking Mexican restaurant. Without spilling on my lap.).

Yes, staying at home would be so much easier.

But I am trying, for once, to be brave and grand and to live outside of myself.

And I went.

I like the kid. He’s totally easy to get along with. Funny. Sweet. Definitely a gentleman.

He told me that I was tiny, which, to me, is the ultimate compliment. Oh, how I being called tiny flatters me. So much more than pretty or beautiful or smart.

(Yes, that is sort of pathetic.)

But.

Maybe this sounds strange, since I’m certain that I will die a virgin.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

During our interview, he was sort of babbling through his schedule "well, I leave this Sunday and I'll be gone through Tuesday, and then I leave again the next Sunday and I'll be gone until Wednesday, and then there's that conference..."

Clearly, he's a busy guy.

So he might not be blowing me off. Maybe he's legitimately busy.

But maybe he is blowing me off.

And to be rather honest, I would just like to know if I should give up on the possibility of this job or hold out a little longer. That's all I want.

So do I send him some "it's been two weeks since we spoke, and I just wanted to touch base with you and let you know that I'm still interested in this position and blah blah blah..." email or do I just let it go and hope that he'll call if he's interested?

Help.

I hate this crap. It's all so sensitive. Is way too easy to make one wrong move and completely screw your chances at a job.

Anyway. Enough of that. Lets hear about my current job.

The president of the company was at my building today, teaching my boss how to manage people/finances/etc. Basically teaching her how to do her job.

He's getting ready to leave and go back to Corporate when he's like, "do you have five minutes to sit down and talk to me?" And I realize that he's not waiting around for much more than to talk to me, so I put the project I was working on aside and we had a little chat.

We sat down in the conference room and he was all "I just wanted to talk to you about some staffing decisions we've made lately."

Translation: "Let's chat about how you've been screwed."

"That thing with Carrie's job, well, you know that was just a fluke. It was just...wow...it was a complete fluke! But let me tell you, you were on the short list. We were considering changing the position a bit, but if we didn't, you were the short list. But, it was a fluke, the way..."

"And we found someone, but that didn't work out. So we sort of altered the position a little bit. We decided to go in a different direction. More of a sales direction. We needed someone who could really sell."

I'd rather kill myself than be in sales, so, I must admit, this was a very effective way to convince me that the job was not a good fit.

"The other part of the job, the part that you would really fit, that part of the job that we gave to Carrie. It's just a part-time thing, you know."

I gritted my teeth. Smiled. Nodded.

"But, really, I just want you to know that you do a great job. We value your work. You're a great employee and you're a strong candidate for future internal searches."

So we can screw you over even more.

The end.

It was nice of him, I guess, to recognize that I have been repeatedly fucked over and take the time to talk to me about why it was that I was screwed. Consistantly and humiliatingly.

Hi. I'm A.

Born, raised, educated in the Midwest, I am such a Midwesterner. So Midwestern, if you will.

I am: a blogger of 8+ years, forever searching for my next athletic challenge, hopelessly overscheduled and always, always eating.

I started So Midwestern right after I graduated from college, hoping to chronicle my transition to adulthood. Graduate school, four half marathons, two new nephews, three apartments, a trip to Africa, a sprinkle of heartbreak, dozens of unfinished knitting projects, four turns as a bridesmaid, 8,913 job applications and two full-time positions later: I’m fairly convinced that the day when I feel like a legitimate, full-fledged grownup will never come. So I’ll just keep on blogging.

I write about a little bit of everything and a lot of nothing. Toss my ramblings with a few pictures, a touch of swearing and an endless appreciation for the beauty that is David Beckham and you have So Midwestern. Welcome.